


Old Acquaintance

by ClaraxBarton



Series: Thank you fics [4]
Category: Avengers (Comics), Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: BAMF Bucky Barnes, BAMF Natasha Romanov, Clint hates corporate coffee, M/M, Modern AU, Supernatural Elements, winterhawk - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-08
Updated: 2019-08-21
Packaged: 2020-08-12 23:10:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20164165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClaraxBarton/pseuds/ClaraxBarton
Summary: Clint really just should have stayed in bed.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Angrydollface](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angrydollface/gifts), [rollinroots](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=rollinroots).

Clint had just, finally, _ finally _ fallen asleep when his phone rang.

He contemplated ignoring it. After all, he had earned the right to sleep. He had just pulled a double-shift and -

And the ringtone penetrated his sleep fogged brain.

Natasha was calling him.

And Natasha had _ also _ just got done pulling a double-shift, so if she was the one calling him it was either because…

Hell. Clint couldn’t think of any reason Natasha would call him when they should both be sleeping.

With a groan, he levered himself up and reached for the phone.

“Barton,” he grumbled into the phone after thumbing it on.

“Get dressed. We’ve got another one.” She sounded awake and alert and, more importantly, furious. The kind of cold, hard, tempered fury that only Natasha seemed capable of. The kind that was forged from decades of anger and injustice and that she somehow managed to keep hidden and honed to a razor sharp point.

“What kind of -”

“If I knew, I would have said.” The fury gave way to impatience and that, more than the phone call itself, had Clint genuinely worried. 

Because Natasha Romanoff? She didn’t let herself express trivial emotions like impatience. 

So this, whatever kind of bullshit this was, was _ not good _.

He climbed out of bed and started searching for clean clothes to pull on. 

The first three shirts he grabbed didn’t even pass the smell test, and the fourth was stained with coffee. 

“Text me the location. Be there in twenty.”

“Make it ten, Clint.”

She hung up on him, and Clint couldn’t help but think that, really, he should have stayed in bed.

-o-

Clint really should have stayed in bed.

STRIKE Team Alpha was the unit that had been called in for containment. And, sure, they were the most accurately named team in SHIELD because there was, Clint knew from extensive research, not a single group of containment officers who were bigger assholes or such a ludicrous display of toxic masculinity.

“Barton. Sorry about interrupting your beauty sleep.”

Rumlow’s greeting was neither unique or clever, and Clint didn’t even bother to glare at him as he ducked under the yellow caution tape that blocked off the perimeter of the… Starbucks?

Clint stepped through the shattered glass front door and into the wreckage, clutching his own travel mug full of coffee - yesterday’s extremely bitter, extremely burnt coffee and actually it wasn’t even from yesterday, was it? It was from _ two _ yesterday’s ago and frankly it was kind of a miracle Clint hadn’t burned down his apartment…

The place was mostly empty, apart from the scattered, broken tables and chairs, spilled coffee, a few hastily abandoned personal possessions, and the handful of STRIKE members there to keep it secure.

And, of course, there was Natasha, hair a fluffy halo of black curls today, her eyes a sharp green and her full lips pinched into a grimace as she listened to Rollins, another STRIKE asshole, talk at her.

Even after five years as her partner, Clint wasn’t sure what really made Natasha tick. He sure as hell didn’t understand what triggered her chromatic shifts. She could control them, mostly, so he’d only ever seen her with blue _ skin _ once. But her eyes and her hair… either those were harder to control or she cared less, because not a week had gone by since they had first met when she didn’t have a different hair or eye color. Even her freckles came and went. The only thing that really ever stayed consistent was her lip color - always a bold, bright red flash of color that made her impossible to ignore.

Clint walked up to her side, exchanged a glare with Rollins in lieu of a verbal greeting, and tried to listen to whatever the asshole was saying.

“...for three hours. Witness reports say the attack happened almost immediately. Say that _ he _,” and here Rollins paused and jerked his head towards the bathroom door. The closed bathroom door, “started it for no reason at all.”

Natasha arched one perfect eyebrow.

“Witnesses say that a _ one armed barista _ attacked a shape-shifting alien with no provocation?”

Clint’s attention was instantly piqued. Not that he had been bored, really, when he saw that the latest incident in this month’s string of bullshit occurrences had happened in a Starbucks - Clint loved coffee more than his own blood and if he could replace said blood with coffee he’d probably be a lot more careful about getting cut open all the time, but _ Starbucks _ rubbed him wrong. Something about his long buried circus-anarchist roots and the fact that the shit was just too expensive and too _ bitter _ .   


But that all of this somehow revolved around a one armed barista? _ That _ made things interesting.

Natasha spared Clint a glare, as if he had spoken aloud. He was pretty sure he hadn’t, but also, Natasha just _ knew _ him in a way that was deeply unfair in contexts outside of work.

“I didn’t say no provocation,” Rollins grumbled.

“You said he started it,” Clint helpfully pointed out, because while Natasha was oh so very capable of making Rollins regret every decision that had led his life to this point, Clint liked to have a little fun too.

Rollins grimaced.

“Witnesses stated that the Exo was in human form, and walked in without any signs of aggression. It wasn’t until the…” Rollins gestured towards the bathroom again, “wasn’t until they touched hands while the Exo passed over money for his coffee that anything happened. And then the guy just full on attacked the Exo.”

“Where _ is _ the Exo?” Clint asked, craning his head to look around, because he didn’t see the tell-tale streaks of lavender blood/goo/stuff that the Exo’s bled/leaked/whatever _ anywhere _.

Rollins grimaced.

“Where is the Exo?” Natasha repeated, words clipped and glare at sub-zero levels.

“When we arrived on site the altercation was still in progress. Our priority was to secure the location and -”

“You let him get away,” Natasha surmised.

“The civilians -”

“You _ let an Extraterrestrial shapeshifter determined to infiltrate human governments and take over the world go _,” Natasha cut in.

Rollins jaw locked.

“Hey, they cornered the one-armed barista who tried to save the world in the bathroom, though,” Clint pointed out. He added in a jaunty coffee-mug salute towards Rollins.

“Listen, you pretentious Delta fucks, we didn’t even want your help here. We -”

“Sh,” Natasha held up two fingers. “We don’t care. Playtime is over. Go sweep or something while the grown-ups handle this.”

And with that, she turned away from Rollins.

Clint couldn’t help but smirk at the asshole before taking a sip of his coffee and then following Natasha over to the locked bathroom door.

“Well, this is a fucking mess,” he said.

She spared him a glare.

“Seriously,” Clint continued. “I don’t know what kind of mission briefing or intel these Exos had before they landed but _ Starbucks _? No one even told them to go to local coffee shops instead of feeding the corporate machine that -”

“Clint, your rants about the evils of capitalist coffee are cute approximately never. I haven’t slept in eighty-four hours and there is a very attractive, very frustrated woman waiting for me in our bed at home. I do not… have the patience right now.”

“Noted.” Clint nodded and made an effort to dial it back. That Natasha was giving him a warning at all was something pretty remarkable. He wouldn’t push her any more.

Natasha sighed, drew in a deep breath, and knocked on the locked bathroom door.

“This is Agent Romanoff with SHIELD. We’d like to ask a few questions about what happened here this morning. Who am I speaking to?”

“You gonna ask your questions by shooting at me some more, you stupid fucks?” The snarled voice was a little muffled, through the door, and the person was clearly as far away from the door as they could be.

And they - 

_ They _ had a very familiar voice. Deep, drawling Brooklyn accent and -

“_ Bucky?” _ Clint called out before he could even stop himself. 

Even through the door, there was a groan.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” the voice sounded even more pissed off. “What the fuck are you doing here, Clint?”

“What the fuck am I - what the fuck are _ you _ doing here? You - babe, you lost an _ arm _ ? You’re working at _ Starbucks _? You -”

“I didn’t fucking lose my arm, Clint! A bunch of fucking terrorists took it and when the fuck did you start working for the government again? You told me - you actually said - _ over my dead body will I let those pricks tell me who to kill again _.” 

As if to emphasize those words, the bathroom door was jerked open with enough force that Clint was pretty sure one of the hinges was ripped out of the door frame.

But, sure enough, on the other side of the door was Bucky.

Bucky Barnes.

The probably/definitely love of Clint’s life. The only guy who had ever been able to match Clint shot for shot on or off a firing range. The guy he had served two tours with until that horrible fucking assignment in Cairo and Clint had decided he couldn’t, _ wouldn’t _ do this shit anymore and hadn’t re-upped. And Bucky… Bucky had and they had fought, with words and fists and it had been _ awful _ and that had been six years ago and Clint hadn’t spent a single day since not thinking about him.

“So,” Natasha crossed her arms and smirked, “I take it you two know each other.”

-o-

  



	2. Back in the day...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nine years ago, how things between Clint and Bucky began.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there will be ANOTHER chapter added, thanks to RollinRoots, but tonight this is all you get because my brain isn't cooperating.

* * *

_ September 20, 2011 _

_ Iraq _

There was a party, because of course there was a party. 

There was _ always _ a party when a unit came back from a successful mission. Hell, sometimes there was a party when it was unsuccessful, if things were that fucked up.

That their mission _ had _ been a success and that they _ were _ coming back to base after three weeks in the field, was actually incidental to the party.

Clint hadn’t even realized it _ was _ a party until he stumbled out of the showers, beer in hand and towel on his hips because he was the kind of idiot who thought to get a beer ahead of time but _ not _ bring a change of clothes into the head. 

And there it was. 

An actual party, with actual _ rainbow fucking lights _, in the middle of the goddamn desert on an army base. 

It made Clint stop in his tracks, made him wonder if he had died or something because what in the actual _ fuck _?

But then some kid - some bright faced, skinny corporal with a fucking rainbow on his cheeks - ran by and ripped Clint’s towel off.

Clint tried to grab it but the kid was fast and clearly fucking insane because who the fuck went around with a rainbow on their face stealing a towel from a soaking wet Delta operative just back from three weeks in the fucking sand and -

Someone was laughing at him.

Someone familiar.

Clint stumbled to a halt, kid long gone and shrieking into the night and _ what the fuck? Were those fireworks or _ \- no. Those were fucking flares streaking up into the dark sky.

He turned his attention towards his very amused audience, because turning his attention anywhere else was clearly a mistake.

It was Barnes.

James ‘Call me Bucky and oh that shot was almost as nice as the one I made yesterday’ Barnes. 

Dressed in low slung sweatpants and a faded _ ARMY _ t-shirt that hugged his lean muscles just the right side of obscene, Barnes was standing a few feet away, beer in hand, laughing at Clint’s predicament.

Beyond Barnes, the rainbow party was in full swing - men and women, Army and Air Force and Navy and Marines and a few NATO guys by the looks of it, were dancing and shouting along with the too loud music and Clint was positive he was dead or in an alternate dimension or _ something _.

“What the fuck is going on?” He finally asked Barnes.

Barnes, whose attention was definitely not focused on Clint’s face.

“Party,” he said, stormy eyes dragging up Clint’s naked torso and, even in the dark and with the four yards between them and the _ rainbow _flashing lights in the background, Clint could see heat in his gaze. 

It had been there almost from the start, from the moment Clint slumped down into the seat next to Barnes’s on the C-130 transport and Barnes had looked up at him over the dog-eared pages of _ Slaughterhouse Five _ and their eyes had met and held.

For months, this thing had been between them. Fueled by their competitive nature - they were Delta operatives and they were _ snipers _, after all - and by the shit they kept finding themselves in and… and it was a lot and Clint was pretty sure it wasn’t just his imagination. 

“I know it’s a party,” Clint said and, because he refused to back down, took a sip of his beer. Barnes’s gaze unashamedly drifted low again. “_ Why _ is it a party and why the fuck are there fucking rainbows everywhere?”

Barnes’s lips twitched and he strolled closer, pace slow and deliberate.

“Don’t Ask Don’t Tell is dead,” Barnes drawled.

Clint blinked. Took that in. Considered the rainbows and the -

Oh. 

Shit.

There were definitely same sex couples dancing together and - 

Shit.

“I didn’t realize,” Clint said stupidly, because he was an idiot.

Barnes raised his eyebrows.

“And here I was thinking _ this _ was your way of inviting me to celebrate with you.”

Clint tried to swallow, but his mouth was as dry as the desert around them.

He took another sip of beer.

“I mean, sure, we could do that,” Clint tried to sound nonchalant, tried to sound like Barnes wasn’t offering him the very thing he had been dreaming of for the past three months. 

Barnes’s smirk made it clear that Clint didn’t come off as nonchalant at all.

“Then get your ass over here, soldier.”

And, okay, that… that wasn’t even the first time Barnes had said that to Clint. But it was _ different _ hearing Barnes say it now, with Clint naked and intent clear in Barnes’s eyes as opposed to him hissing at Clint over comms because Clint was maybe about to do something stupid but cool and definitely necessary that Barnes disagreed with.

For the first time, it was easy to follow that order too. 

Clint stopped just short of plastering himself against Bucky, leaving a few inches between them, and looked down at Bucky.

“You got any plans for my ass, Sarge?”

Bucky snorted.

“I haven’t worked so fucking hard to keep that work of art in one piece because I didn’t,” Barnes assured him.

Clint grinned and then yowled in surprise when Barnes _ spanked _ him.

Barnes smirked.

“Let’s get you inside, soldier, can’t let you walk around out of uniform like this. It’ll give Delta a bad reputation.”


	3. Happily Ever After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And here is the third and final installment of Old Acquaintance!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, for the lovely and generous RollinRoots!

* * *

_ November, 2020 _

_ New York _

Clint cleaned the last of the lavender goo out of his hair and sighed in relief.

Saving the world was great. It was. Really, he was a big fan. But it would be nice if, just _ once _, it was a clean job.

Instead, it was the exact, literal opposite. There wasn’t a single catastrophic event in the last six months that hadn’t resulted in Clint limping out of the post-mission debriefing with bits of _ gross _ all over him that required an hour-long shower at the minimum, and enough scrubbing that probably the top three millimeters of his own skin were peeled off for Clint to feel anything like human again.

And, sure, if that was the trade-off to prevent the actual world from actually ending, fine. 

But that didn’t mean Clint couldn’t complain about it, to himself, in his own head, while he showered at SHIELD HQ alone and angry and hurting.

“You missed a spot.”

Or maybe not so alone after all.

Clint looked over his shoulder and, sure enough, Bucky Barnes was standing just outside of Clint’s shower stall, arms crossed and a smirk on his face and wearing not a single stitch of clothing.

“You gonna stare at it or take care of it for me?” Clint asked.

Bucky’s lips twitched, and he shrugged one shoulder.

“What’s in it for me? I already cleaned all of the goo off myself.”

“I’ll suck your dick,” Clint offered, and Bucky must have been expecting him to argue or - something, anything, other than that response. He barked out a surprised laugh and let his interested gaze roam over Clint.

“Sure you didn’t swallow any of that goo?” Bucky teased.

Clint rolled his eyes.

“I brushed my teeth as soon as we got back to HQ,” Clint assured him, because he had, because, yeah, he _ had _ swallowed some of that goo but in his defense an alien had died on top of his _ face _.

Bucky’s expression lost a little but of heat and grew a lot more concerned.

“I’m _ fine _,” Clint assured him, always uneasy with that expression.

Even though Bucky stepped into the shower stall, crowding Clint under the hot spray of water, he wasn’t looking at Clint like he was thinking about the best way to fuck him.

Instead, Bucky’s storm cloud eyes were sweeping over Clint’s entire body, cataloguing injuries. He reached out with both hands, the long familiar callouses of his right tracing over Clint’s skin while the smooth metal plates of his left probed with incredible gentleness.

It had been a little surreal, to go from sitting across from a surly Bucky in an interrogation room who kept repeating the word _ lawyer _ instead of answering any of Natasha or even Clint’s questions for two solid hours until Tony Stark, the billionaire playboy philanthropist who funded SHIELD and who, it turned out, had a shared history with Bucky, burst into the interrogation room and told everyone to go fuck themselves while he absconded with Bucky for a cronut break - to _ this _. To Bucky with a Starktech prosthetic limb working alongside Clint and Natasha on Strike Team Delta and helping take out threats both extraterrestrial and Terran.

Six months in, and it still felt like a dream. Even when Tony Stark wasn’t involved. Even when Clint wasn’t watching Bucky deflect bullets with his _ hand _ . Even when he wasn’t forced to arbitrate a disagreement between Bucky and Natasha over which of their _ favorite knives was the best _.

Especially when Bucky was standing in front of Clint, touching him, looking at him like he simultaneously wanted to murder Clint and pull him close. Maybe murder him _ by _ pulling him close.

“Do I pass muster?” Clint asked just as Bucky’s hands drifted down to his hips.

Bucky looked up, frown on his face no doubt a reaction to the massive bruising along Clint’s left side, and met Clint’s gaze again.

“When in your _ life _ have you ever passed muster?” Bucky asked.

“I’m not that bad,” Clint muttered, but Bucky arched one eyebrow in silent judgement and Clint could see him mentally reviewing all of the times during their military days and during their SHIELD days now that Clint had absolutely not been anything like presentable.

“You could be worse,” was all Bucky said, however. “You could also be dead. That shit you pulled today -”

“Okay, let’s hold on a second and re-evaluate your decision to call me on _ anything _ I did today when you _ started _ the engagement by jumping onto an alien’s back and telling it to fuck off.”

“I stand by that decision as solid tactics,” Bucky shrugged, unrepentant, and started rubbing his thumbs over Clint’s hips in small, circular, unfairly distracting motions.

“Fifteen aliens converged on you and tried to beat you to death!”

“Which allowed Natasha the opportunity to flank them and gave you the easiest head shots you could have asked for.”

“While _ fifteen aliens were trying to beat you to death _!”

“But they didn’t, did they?” Bucky was wearing his familiar, smug grin, and Clint honestly didn’t know if he wanted to punch it off his face or kiss it off.

“I hate you,” he growled.

“Liar. You fucking love me.”

Clint settled for kissing the expression away, and by the time he had succeeded, both he and Bucky were breathless and Clint’s back was pressed against the cool tile wall of the shower and Bucky’s body was wrapped around his and holding him tight.

“I do,” Clint agreed after he remembered how to breathe again. “Which is why I’d like you to stay in one piece, okay?”

“Greedy,” Bucky muttered before tilting his head up for another kiss.

“You bet your ass I am,” Clint said after giving it to him. He squeezed Bucky’s ass with both hands, tight enough that Bucky groaned. “Lost you once already,babe, I’m not doing it again.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t let you.”

-o-

* * *

  



End file.
